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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452414">Danger In Fiction</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ollieollieupandfree/pseuds/Ollieollieupandfree'>Ollieollieupandfree</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Markiplier TV - Fandom, The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Mild Gore, My First Work in This Fandom, Statement Fic, The Host (Markiplier) - Freeform, The Host's Radio Show, The only gore is blood and missing eyes, extremely mild gore, set season 2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:33:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ollieollieupandfree/pseuds/Ollieollieupandfree</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A statement given by Mr. Seth Olson, on the subject of a radio show and an entity known as The Host.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Danger In Fiction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! I recently got really into The Magnus Archives and binged all of season 1 and 2 in, like, three days. And, naturally, I thought; What better aesthetic to combine than The Host and TMA?</p>
<p>Prior knowledge of The Host as a character isn't necessary, especially given we don't know much about him. But for those that don't know and would like a basic rundown; The Host is an ego for Markiplier. Essentially, he is a blind psychic who narrates the world around him and runs a radio show.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon looked down at the statement in front of him. It was a recent statement. Only happened about a month before Gertrude died. Why it took him this long to get to it - to even find it - Jon didn’t know. It was strange to him. He’d briefly skimmed it before getting the recording equipment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Statement of Seth Olson, regarding a mysterious radio show and an entity known as The Host. Original statement given February 2nd, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, London.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Statement begins.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I live out in Bath, but I work in London. It’s a long drive to work, but I like what I do. I work in a bookshop. It’s small, no one really visits. Nobody really visits </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>any </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>local bookstores anymore. They prefer online or those big-name media stores. I hate it, but I like my job. I love my job, in fact. It’s how I met my wife.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Anyway. I live out in Bath. It’s, like, two and quarter hours outside of London on a good day, and the bookstore opens at ten, so I’m usually up and out of the house and on the road at seven or so. I like to be early. There’s a patisserie near the shop, and I love their chocolate croissants. I go nearly every day.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I used to drive in silence. I like driving, it’s soothing, you know? I like just looking around at the world as I drive. So I don’t usually put on music or anything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But then I found </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>it</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was a radio station. 23.7. It was raining, so I was fiddling through the radio stations,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>searching for someone saying the weather, but no one was. I  don’t remember how I got to 23.7, but I did. He wasn’t saying the weather, but I couldn’t stop listening.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>His voice is deep and even. There was no emotion in his voice, but I found myself entranced. Even simple words sounded beautiful coming from him. He calls himself The Host. I know this because he only speaks in the third person, like he’s narrating everything, even himself.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s what he does. He narrates. A lot of it is small. Just little slice of life stories that last my whole drive. The rest of it is horror. I like the horror more than the slice of life. He’s incredible with horror. Everything about it is so scary. His stories get in your head. Like those songs you can’t stop repeating. Even hours after I get out of the car, I’m terrified of the stories he tells.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s strange. Whenever I park, his story ends. It always ends right as my drive does, and start as my drive starts. It’s weird. I think he knows how long my drive is. No. I </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>know </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>he knows how long my drive is. The Host knows all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I found him. It took me months, but I found him. He’s American. I always knew that he was American, but it never occurred as strange to me until I found him. I went there, and that’s when it got strange. I got a radio app on my phone, so I could listen to him while in America.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I was just messing around, I didn’t expect it to work in the air. But it did. His voice echoed through my headphones and filled my ears as he spoke. He told the story of two young men, named Gus Stevens and Lake Archer. It was a ghost story. Gus’ father gets possessed, and he tries to kill Gus and Lake, who’s a young man that Gus found dying out on the edge of Gus and his father’s farm. They get separated in the climax. I remember I was gripping the armrests of my seat so tight my knuckles were white. When Gus finally finds Lake again, he’s quiet. Lake didn’t speak for the rest of the story, and it’s only at the end, after Gus is forced to kill his father, that the truth is discovered. Lake died when they were separated. He was killed by Gus’ father. Brutalized by him, and what Gus discovers in Lake’s diary is even worse. His father had been far sicker than he thought, and Lake had suffered silently for months.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I remember crying when the story ended. The last line, Gus took Lake’s diary with him, so Lake’s ghost would never be alone. It was horrible. Not horrible as in badly written. But horrible as in heartbreaking. The story ended right as we touched down, and I swear I could hear a bit of amusement in The Host’s voice as he wished us goodbye.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And what was worse, was that, when I got to the airport. There was… a story. On the news. A story of a young man named Augustus Stevens, who was the only one to survive a break-in in his countryside home. His father was murdered in the break-in. The police found the body of sixteen-year-old missing person Lake Archer as well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t know what to think. The story was real. The Host’s story was </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>real</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. Had he just been telling the story from the news? Had he just been repeating what he had already heard? Or was something else happening? Was The Host to blame? Or could he-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Archivist’s Note,” Jon said. “The rest of the paragraph is water damaged, presumably from Mr. Olson’s tears. I am unable to read what the rest of the paragraph says. Statement resumes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever the answer was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. So I just continued with my plans. I’d made an online friend while researching The Host. His name was RJ, and he worked as a local news reporter in LA. He was the one who helped me find The Host, and he even let me stay with him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Looking back on it, I probably should have thought it was strange. I probably should have questioned how RJ found The Host so quickly. I probably should have found it strange that RJ was so willing to let a stranger stay with him. I probably should have found it strange that he didn’t go in with me. But I didn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On my third day in LA, RJ drove me to an old library. At least, he said it was a library. All I know is that it was abandoned. Or, rather, </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>almost </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>abandoned. I entered alone. RJ said he would wait for me in the car and his twin, CJ who had been silent all three days I’d known him, wished me luck.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The library was pristine. All the lights were off, but it wasn’t dirty. Anything on the floor was neatly arranged on the side, forming a clear path. I hated it, but there was no other way to go. No other path to take. No way to step over the walls around the path and explore. I don’t know why it scared me, but it did. It felt like The Host was waiting for me at the end of this path.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I could hear things, too. Creatures, prowling beyond the walls that formed the path. Their claws clacked on the tiles of the floor. Their cries echoed through the building. I tried to turn back, but as soon as I did, I heard them stop moving. And then I felt something brush against my leg, and I screamed. A deep laugh echoed through the building as I did. It wasn’t a cruel laugh. Not at all, actually. It sounded… amused. Genuinely amused at my fear. Again, not in a malicious way, but like how an older sibling is amused by startling their little brother or sister.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I looked down, and it was a dog. It was strange. A grey color, surrounded by blue and red glitching auras. I think she might have been a golden retriever before she became what she was now. She opened her mouth, and the cry of the creature I’d heard before came forth. I felt silly. Sure, this wasn’t a normal dog, but she wasn’t harmful. She even let me pet her.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I turned back towards the end of the path, feeling invigorated. The dog next to me disappeared, but I didn’t need her with me anymore. I felt braver, somehow. Knowing that the creatures lurking beyond the walls were just her.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the end of the path was a table. It was full of old recording and broadcasting equipment. The table was dark red. I don’t know what kind of wood it was. I don’t know what it was even now. Behind the table were rows and rows of bookshelves, filled with cassette tapes. I think they were recordings of all of The Host’s shows. I think, if I looked through them enough, I would find a story of my life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think that’s how we find him, those of us who listen. He narrates our lives, and we find Him. He makes us who we are.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Archivist’s note,” Jon said. “At this point, Mr. Olson begins to capitalize all instances of referring to The Host as pronouns, as if referring to The Host as a devout Christian would God. Statement resumes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wasn’t thinking. I stepped behind the desk, entranced with the never-ending rows of cassettes. The dog appeared again in front of me, and I jumped, startled out of whatever reverie His tapes had put me in, and stumbled back, touching the table. It was wet beneath my hand and squishy. I screamed and drew my hand away, spinning back around to look at the table. My hand came away wet and a combination of red and black, as if covered in blood and ink.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I stared at the table in horror, stumbling away. And then I hit something. It was smaller than me, only by a few inches, and skinny. I stumbled more when I hit it, and almost slipped on a puddle of blood I didn’t notice. And then, I saw Him. He was short and skinny. His fingers, long and thin, wrapped around my wrist and held me up with more strength than His frame indicated. He wore a long, tan trench coat, cinched closed with both buttons and a belt. I can see the collar of a white shirt with an unrecognizable pattern. His face looked like RJ and CJ’s, except for the blood trailing down His cheeks. His eyes were wrapped by a pink, bloody bandage. His hair was slicked back. It was black and streaked with gold and I don’t know how I knew but I did. I knew that beneath those bandages, He had no eyes, only empty sockets, bleeding down his cheeks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I tried to speak, but I don’t think anything came out. Or if it did, He did not notice. He moved past me, and sat at His desk. I fell quiet as a light came on to indicate He was on the air. I couldn’t even hear my own breath as He unwrapped His bandages, and blood and ink flowed down to the table. He began to speak, and I fainted.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t remember how I got back to RJ and CJ’s house. I don’t even remember how I got back to Bath. But as soon as I did, I came to you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I need you all to know. I need you to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>hear </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Him. I need you to know His word. To know that He is here, and He is far more than we thought. He is beyond us. Beyond everyone. The Host is not a god. I know, now, that He is not a god. He is the prophet of a dead god. He is beautiful, and His words must spread.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Statement ends.” Jon leaned back in his chair. “It is, for once, not difficult to follow up on this statement. Tim has done a bit of rudimentary research and can confirm that Mr. Olson did, indeed, travel to Los Angeles five days before he came to us, and returned four days later. He came to us the day after. We can also confirm the story Mr. Olson mentions.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Augustus Stevens, his father Edward Stevens, and Lake Archer did suffer from a break-in the day Mr. Olson flew to Los Angeles. Lake Archer and Edward Stevens died during the break-in, and Augustus Stevens survived and currently resides in psychiatric care, recovering from the trauma.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “As for the radio station Mr. Olson mentioned, Sasha confirmed that it is American in origin. But despite that, Martin has managed to find it. He says the stories are fun. He likes the slice of life stories. I do not know what The Host is, but I do not trust it. End recording.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon stopped the recording and copied the tape to his own tape recorder before beginning to record again. “Supplemental. I listened to one of the broadcasts. It was a horror story. It was.” He paused. “It was the story of Jane Prentiss. Exactly as she wrote her original statement. From her statement to the incident in the archives. He preceded it by saying it was an old story. That he’d had for a few months.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I felt watched, as I listened. The same watched I always feel when I read the statements. I do not believe all that Mr. Olson has said, but there is one line that sticks out to me. ‘The Host knows all.’. Yes. Yes, I believe he does. And I wonder if he will give me a statement… End supplemental.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Congratulations on getting to the end! Want to come chat with me about anything? Check me out on tumbler at @we-need-a-sexy-skeleton!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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